Genre: YA Romantic Comedy
Word Count: 80,000 words
Seventeen year old Camryn McCaleb’s dating life just plain sucks. Boys splash water on her during dinner, use cue cards for conversation, and even pretend to get beat up for attention. In attempt to get the boys off her back—along with her friends who want to set her up on more dates—Camryn decides to invent a boyfriend and write love letters to herself to prove his existence. Who better to base her letters on than her crush, the ogle-worthy Beckham Peters?
Her perfect plan gets spoiled when her friend Gabby spills that she has a crush on Beckham, too. (Gulp.) Not knowing what else to do, Cam lies about who her letters are from, which is fantastic...until Beckham asks her out.
Soon things begin to unravel: Beckham becomes jealous when he hears about Cam’s secret, letter-writing boyfriend; Gabby can’t figure out the mystery girl (ahem, Camryn) who has stolen Beckham’s attention; and Cam would rather pour Tabasco sauce in her eyes than admit she’s been lying to everyone. She can only hope to find a way around the mess she’s made before the truth breaks out and her life comes crashing down around her ears.
Maybe he’s just really shy. That’s why he won’t look at me.
“I like lots of different bands,” I say in response to my date’s fifty-billionth question. But I feel like I’m trying to get to know the steak knife instead of Tyson. All I’ve seen of him since we got to The Mango Grill is the top of his blonde, healthy hair.
He nods. Is it to let me know he’s listening? Or to make me think he’s listening?
Why did I say anything? If I keep quiet maybe he’ll actually look up at me. Maybe he spilled some sauce on his pants and the spot is shaped like a hula dancer.
I tap my fingers on my thigh. The Mango Grill is one of the few good restaurants in Cypress, so I’ve been here a million times. Decals of surfers and beaches cover the walls, and they use real cloth napkins and everything. They even serve sushi here.
“What’s your favorite book?” Tyson asks, bobbing his lowered head.
Sorry, are you asking me or your legs? I try to connect how this question has anything to do with what bands I listen to, or if I like sports, or what my religious beliefs are, or any of the other random questions he fired out before those. Up on the mini stage bordered by fake grass, a big Samoan guy starts singing.